On compassion and kindness: a discussion about the difficulties, the resulting discoveries and ultimate rewards of being connected to others
Do you consider yourself a kind or compassionate person? Can it be a struggle to try understanding the sufferings of another soul? In this episode, Dolli and I revisit moments in our lives, both in the recent and distant past, where we've had to learn compassion, to extend it towards another or, as many people often forget to do, to even offer it to ourselves. We discuss the varieties of compassion and kindness even in regard to death and discuss the work of author and researcher, William J. Peters, and his book At Heaven's Door, as well as his findings surrounding the shared experience of death. Further on, I read a passage from my near-complete novel, Breathing Loss and Wonder. Like always, another fascinating topic to discuss, so join us for another journey!
“If once we admit, be it for a single hour or in a single instance, that there can be anything more important than compassion for a fellow human being, then there is no crime against man that we cannot commit with an easy conscience.”
A scene from Breathing Loss and Wonder, my book (section featured in the podcast):
Pappelalle nach dem Gewitter (Poplar path after the storm), Emil Jakob Schindler
Last year. It had been raining in August. September coolness came creeping in, meaning school would be back. The girls wouldn’t be spending much time with their grandparents. In the living room, with the fading thunder beyond them, and on the scratch record player, Gio’s favourite singer sang her rollicking and melancholy songs, grandfather and granddaughter were assembling a jigsaw puzzle and Nadia, smelling of lemon wipes, coming in from the kitchen, wanted to help. She plopped Tomek hard on the table, displacing some puzzle pieces. Anna swatted him away, the black teddy bear tumbling to the floor. Red-faced, Nadia leapt over to push Anna hard into the couch. The older retaliated with a palm shoving at Nadia’s face. Recovering, the younger leapt towards her sister, swatting the top of Anna’s head with her palms. Whack, whack, whack. Even the music became faster, chaotic, a kaleidoscope of jittery song. Gio getting to his feet, hands gripped arms, separated the scuffling siblings.
Nonna appeared at the door, dishtowel in hand, saying something in Italian to Gio. He sternly gripped Anna’s hand, suggesting they go outside for a bit. “Cool down.” Nonna picked up Tomek, sitting on the couch to calm the little one with the puffy red face, scrunched up.
Outside in the drizzling hour, the thunder was little more than a tender tremor rippling in the distance. The two stood under the linden, cool mists drifting over the nearby vines, as Gio kept his hands in his pockets and stared off at the sky. Anna looked down. She didn’t want to gaze at him or see the unhappy dark in his eyes. When he was mad, it was hard to look at his eyes. As if adding further remorse, the odd drop made its way down through the rippling shiver of sheltering leaves, plopping hard on her head with punitive glee. The drops hit her where Nadia had struck her. She didn’t know why she was here. Nadia started it. Stupid Tomek.
Gio turned and in his gravelly, accented voice said: “Andzia, you must not fight with your sister.”
Anna shrugged, kept her eyes to the strands of grass.
“She is your only sister. You must love her.”
Anna further lowered her chin. Gio turned. Holding her breath, lips doubtfully pouting, Anna crossed her arms. He knelt, one leg pressed to the grass, the other knee up. He placed a kind hand on her wrist. With head lowered, she looked off. He nodded and in a voice rough like swallowed tears he said: “I wish… I never fought with my sister.”
Hearing him, Anna released her breath and, unafraid, dared to gaze at his eyes. No longer dark, the blue in them glowed like the sky after a rainstorm. Like when he told his stories, his tales. She tightened her arms. “Gio…Gio… where is your sister?”
The grandfather tightened his lips, while keeping his eyes on hers. He swallowed and it looked painful, like taking awful medicine. “She is gone. I lost her.”
“Where did you lose her?”
“Long ago. In my home. Where I was born.”
“But how…”
He didn’t answer, this time he was looking down.
“Gio?”
He let out a long scratchy breath. “You must forgive. Przebaczyć.”
“Sch…bat…cheech…” Anna tried to repeat, unsure what she was saying.
He cleared his throat. “You must forgive. When you forgive, you love. Understand?” To emphasize this, he raised his watery eyes, tightened his grip on her hand. It wasn’t a harsh grip, a kind one, one getting her attention and she could almost feel the tears in her own throat as if his long ago sorrow was reaching her here.
She could forgive. Let go. “’kay.”
“Dobrze.” He sniffed, wiped at his lids before stand. “Good. So, we are better, so… dalej! Let’s see the grapes.”
The hour felt warmer, the drizzle trickling, as the world remained grey though more green, and for a moment, for Anna, it felt like evening should have already arrived. But it hadn’t and this meant more time with Gio. Holding his hand, they walked amongst the older vines, not the younger ones. Anna put out her right arm, letting her fingertips lightly tap at the wet leaves along the rows. Halfway down the row, Gio paused, released his granddaughter’s hand. Bending over, reaching in amongst some foliage, he brought a bunch forwards. “They are bigger, Andzia. Wow, tak?”
These light purple grapes gleamed with rain. As if respectful, Anna leant in with her hands behind her back. After the fight and the sadness, Anna felt like a new confidant. She nodded like a knowing but pint-size professional. “Bigger. And you and Mr. De Luca pick them.”
“We pick them. Soon. And you can dance on the grapes, right?”
Her excitement swept up her chest like when she was on the swings. “Yeah!” She clapped her hands on Gio’s, her small palm lightly smacking his silver watch. “And you make wine after me and Naddie’s dancing.”
Letting the bunch fall back, he cleared his throat. “Good wine, this year.”
“Yeah? October?”
He coughed. “We hope.”
“I will pray.”
A light cough. He put a fist to his mouth and, with the other, steadied his trembling knee. Hand out, Anna reached up and touched his neck, gently massaging the side. With a head tilt, she asked: “That better?”
“Better. You are a healer. You know this.”
Her ponytail bobbed with her nodding. “I know.”
Gio took a deep breath, a glance up at the sky. “School is coming,” he said, his voice hoarse and pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket.
“Yeah… and the leaves will fall. And you burn the leaves.”
“Soon. We will see.” Arms trembled as he raised the cloth, white like a sail.
“Then winter.”
He coughed. Shoulders hunched, he raised a finger.
“Gio?”
“All…all… fine. But I…I must tell you something.”
“A story?”
“No… but…you know the Lord’s Prayer?” He cleared his throat.
“I do.”
“Dobrze. Then you must know this prayer.” One more clearing of his throat. “Well…this is a prayer I used to say in Poland. A prayer my sister taught me. Okay? Okay… this is our secret.” And with that he cupped his hands around her ears. Amongst the vines, he whispered in the lightening rain even thoughthere was no one else around. “Repeat after me. I will translate. Lord be my guide and protector…”
Śmierć artysty (Death of an artist), 1901, Zygmunt Andrychiewicz - National Museum in Warsaw